The Pain Defining Me
by Griselda Banks
Summary: Oneshot. Spoilers for CW. Steve goes to visit Bucky, even though he knows Bucky can't hear, even though he knows it won't do any good. He just can't leave him to suffer alone. No pairings.


**Author's Note: This story began as my dear friend NewMoonFlicker's headcanon, and by itself is probably 25% of what made me fall head-over-heels in love with these characters. When she told me she hadn't been able to write it out, I decided to try my hand at it. I don't know if this was really the way she envisioned it, but hopefully the spirit of it lines up at least. This is set after Civil War, before the first little snippet in the credits. I immediately understood why Bucky wanted to go back into cryosleep, but I think I needed to write this to get over the disappointment.**

 **There's an absolutely heart-rendingly beautiful set of pictures floating around on the internet (which appears to be the joint creation of jamesbames dot tumblr dot com and wintersoldier dot tk) that I sort of used as an outline for the middle part of this fic. They created the best explanation I've seen yet of what the Winter Soldier's trigger words "mean," and what they've done to Bucky's psyche. If you like, go look those up and keep them in mind as you read. (As direct of a link as I can give you: jamesbames dot tumblr dot com / post / 144441299915 / ready-to-comply-js ) Also, the gorgeous cover art is by none other than NewMoonFlicker herself. I could gaze at this picture for the rest of my life.**

* * *

 _A million miles have led me to this place  
Where all I've ever loved has been erased  
Changing my song to a disenchanted lullaby  
With a name I never really felt was mine  
But I have learned that I can't earn any love you've given  
So I'm finding hope in letting go of all that I have made _

_Because the pain defining me  
Is holding me lifeless  
So I am waiting patiently for you  
To change my name_

 _\- "Change My Name" by Trading Yesterday_

* * *

 _For NewMoonFlicker  
who taught me to look  
and look again  
and what I saw was beautiful._

* * *

He had expected the nightmares. He'd known there would be flashbacks, even to some extent prepared for them. It was only to be expected that he'd have PTSD—and after undergoing torture and experimentation in World War II, he knew something of what to expect and how to deal with it.

But somehow, he hadn't expected to get flashbacks of the Words.

In a lot of ways, it had been easier when they were fighting for their lives, running, looking over their shoulders every minute. Then, he had so much to think about and pay attention to and struggle to understand that he didn't have space in his brain to spare for his own demons. But once it all came flooding back—once he _really_ knew who he was—he had to struggle not to let those memories overpower him. When his identity was still a question mark, it didn't matter so much. But now James Buchanan Barnes had to come to grips with what had been done to him—and who he'd become.

He would be minding his own business—refilling his coffee mug, maybe, and relishing the sheer normalcy of it—when suddenly a voice would roar in his head: _Longing... Rusted... Seventeen..._ His heart would pound, his breath would leave him in a rush, and all he could see would be faces leering down at him. All he could hear were the screams of the people he'd killed. And he could feel the pain, the terror, the blinding, emptying _rage._ The Words resounded in his head, dragging him back, pushing him under, and it was like struggling against a riptide just to keep his head above the current. Let alone escape.

It was (not okay, nothing was _okay_ anymore) somewhat less awful when Steve was there. Or even when one of the others was there, because they quickly learned when to run and _get_ Steve. Apart from the warmth and comfort of his presence, it was reassuring to know that if he lost the fight, at least there would be someone on hand who was strong enough to stop him. Funny how little Stevie, the kid whose back _he'd_ had to watch like a hawk for so long, could make him feel so safe.

But even though Steve couldn't seem to let him out of sight (understandable, given the circumstances), he couldn't be there all the time.

Bucky locked the door to his room at night, partly because it was the only way he felt safe enough to sleep, partly because it was the only way to prevent Steve from checking on him a dozen times every night, or worse yet, suggest they share a room. And while a part of him wanted the company—longed for the reassurance, _ached_ for the closeness—he couldn't bear the thought of being an even greater burden than he was. Steve had already given up so much just to save him. He deserved a sound night's sleep now that they were in safety.

So he suffered in silence every night, muffling his cries in the pillows, biting down on his sheets as he slapped and beat the Words away. He knew Steve, in the room next door, probably heard some of it. In the morning, Steve would look at him with concern, but Bucky would deflect him with a muttered, "Nightmares. It's fine."

They were trying to rebuild their lives here, but his was just falling apart.

* * *

It attacked again while he was trying to fall asleep, as it so often did. He closed his eyes, and he could feel cold pieces of metal clamping into place. His breathing quickened in anticipation of the pain that would rip through his skull and roar through every nerve in his body.

But he was also aware of the pillow under his head, into which he whispered, "It's not real...not real..." Oh, how he wished he could be normal, to be able to sleep through the night without even dreaming. He longed for it...

 _Longing... Rusted... Seventeen..._

" _No,_ " he moaned, lurching up to a seated position. He slapped himself hard on the cheek, trying to use the sharp pain to blot out the harsh, insistent Russian words echoing in his ears.

 _Daybreak..._

Flinging his blankets away from him, he staggered into the adjoining bathroom. He turned the tap on and splashed icy-cold water on his sweaty face.

 _Furnace..._

In the mirror over the sink, he could see the desperation burning in his eyes. His own mind was betraying him. Hydra's stain ran so deep that he could turn into a monster even when no one else was around.

 _Nine..._

What would he do if he became the Winter Soldier now? There was no one to give him orders, no one to tell him who to kill. Would he just sit here, harmless, until someone managed to snap him out of it? Or would his mind supply him with targets? Would he pull up memories of someone telling him to hunt down people he cared about? Would it tell him to kill Steve?

 _Benign..._

The man in the mirror seemed to smirk, enjoying Bucky's distress. Gritting his teeth, he lashed out with his fist and shattered the mirror with an almighty CRASH! But neither the explosion of sound nor the blaze of pain in his knuckles could distract him from the voice that _just. Wouldn't._ _ **Stop!**_

 _Homecoming..._

"Nononono..." It was too close to the end, too close to danger, he needed to escape, needed to make it _stop._ Gripping the edge of the counter with his hand, he dropped to his knees and slammed his forehead against the granite. Pain exploded across his skull, and for a moment he couldn't even see.

But he could still hear, even if the Words had no sound.

 _One..._

With a desperate cry, he kept whacking his head against the counter as hard as he could. He would _pound_ the Words out of him if he had to.

WHAM. WHAM. _SMACK!_

 _Freight—_

"Bucky!"

Everything came to a shuddering, shivering halt. The roar in his ears settled down to a mere ringing, and the Words _finally_ stopped. Slowly, he became aware that his forehead rested, not against the hard edge of the counter, but against the warm palm of someone's hand. That hand had reached out to cushion his blows, and he could feel the strength in the fingers against his temples, holding him in place.

"Steve..." Bucky crumpled, suddenly struck on all sides by the pain. Steve caught him easily and held him close.

Bucky noticed that both of their hands were covered in blood. _His_ blood. His head throbbed, and his hand stung, and he realized his cheeks were dripping with tears as well as sweat.

He let out a breath that turned into a choking sob. "I don't want...to go back," he gasped, trying to control his breathing as his heart hammered away. "I keep...hearing the words and...I can't...I _can't..._ "

"Shhh..." Steve pulled out the first aid kit from the cupboard under the sink and proceeded to pull the glass out of Bucky's hand. Bucky sat still and let him, letting Steve's strong hands and even breathing soothe him.

When Steve started cleaning up the cuts on Bucky's forehead, Bucky could see the pinched look of worry on his face. Steve was always worrying about someone, trying to protect them, trying to figure out what the truth was and what he needed to do. But for once, Bucky knew _exactly_ what he needed to do.

"You have to put me on ice again," he said quietly.

Steve's hands faltered as he put the last bandage in place. The look of protest on his face was easy to read: _But I just got you back._

But before Steve could say anything, Bucky shook his head. "It's the only way. I can't control myself. This will just keep happening." He waved his bandaged hand to take in the mess of glass scattered all over the counter and the floor. He met Steve's eyes. "I can't turn into the Winter Soldier again. I can't hurt anyone else."

For a long moment, Steve said nothing, just looked at him. Finally he said, "Okay. But I'm going to find a way to fix this."

And despite everything, Bucky smiled. How like Steve Rogers it was, to promise to achieve the impossible. Knowing him, he'd probably find a way.

* * *

Every night—no matter what he'd done that day or where he'd been—Steve went to visit Bucky and talk to him. The doctors explained to him several times that it wasn't even like a coma—Bucky couldn't hear him, it wouldn't do any good. When he woke up, it would be like he'd just closed his eyes, or that he'd been asleep for just one night. Steve already knew all of that; he _had_ been frozen himself, after all.

But he still kept coming back.

He just couldn't stop thinking of the _other_ times Bucky had been put in cryosleep. Hydra would thaw him out, beat him into submission, wipe his memories, and brainwash him into a monster. Then as soon as he'd completed his task, they would force him back under and leave him in the dark and the cold. He would be alone there for years, because no one had any use for him when he wasn't following their orders.

So Steve kept him company.

He wondered if it was actually doing him any good. He'd asked T'Challa's doctors if they knew of any way to reverse the conditioning Bucky had gone through to become the Winter Soldier, and heal him so those words wouldn't trigger that response anymore. The only answer he'd gotten—and it was a tentative one at that—was that maybe if they could reassociate those words to something else, something positive, he would remain himself when he heard them.

Steve didn't have any delusions that he would actually be able to achieve this, especially not if the doctors were right and Bucky couldn't even hear him. But as he kept coming back, night after night, he realized that in a way, he was actually doing this for himself. Part of him had still been stuck under the ice, even when he'd found his place in this new world. That part had only just begun to thaw when he'd learned that Bucky was still alive. It was a small, timid part of himself, shriveled and starved after so many years of being frozen. It had just begun to stretch and grow when it was forced back under the ice with Bucky.

So he kept talking to Bucky, and hoped he was at least a small spot of light in his world of darkness.

* * *

 _Longing._

"Isn't it funny how you don't realize the value of something until it's gone? I mean...I _did_ value your friendship before, I always have. But when I thought you were dead...suddenly I realized how much there was to miss. How much I still had to say to you. The jokes we still had to tell...the stories I wanted to listen to...

"You don't know how much I was _longing_ to see you again. When I woke up...and everything was _different..._ I just wished you could be there. That you'd smile, and tell me things would be all right, the way you used to.

"You wouldn't even have to say anything, or _do_ anything. I just wanted you to be there. I still want you to be here, Buck. I can't wait to see you again..."

* * *

 _Rusted._

"You know what we're going to do as soon as you get out of there? Get you a new arm. One that's even better than that one. If we had all the resources in the world, I'd have one made for you out of vibranium. One that wouldn't break. One that never rusted. Because if you can't get back the arm you lost, you deserve at least that much.

"Wouldn't that be something? My shield, your arm... We'd make the perfect team. We always have, haven't we? Heh...even when we were fighting _against_ each other, we were perfectly matched. It's like we're two halves of the same person.

"...You know that's why I gave up the shield, right? Because I don't need it to be who I am. All I need is you."

* * *

 _Seventeen._

"Do you remember your seventeenth birthday, Bucky? We didn't have much, but we did our best to throw you a little party. Mother made you a little cake. I gave you that crooked little bicycle I'd salvaged from the dump and straightened out. It was the ugliest bike I'd ever clapped eyes on, but you insisted on taking it for a ride with me sitting on the handlebars.

"And then I had an asthma attack, remember? I fell right off the front. Skinned my arms, too. You know, they have medicine for asthma now. But back then, I thought I was going to die. I could hardly breathe at all.

"And you sat there with me, and helped me breathe slowly, and didn't let me panic. You told me later I'd scared you half to death, but you could've fooled me. You just kept talking to me quietly and calmly until you could get me home.

"You were always doing things like that, weren't you? I felt like such a burden sometimes, always ruining your fun and forcing you to come save me. I don't know if you feel like a burden now, or if that was part of why you wanted to go under again. So I wouldn't have to worry about you anymore. But you're not a burden, Bucky. You never were. I get it now, being on the other side. I just want to help you. The way you always helped me."

* * *

 _Daybreak._

"Have I ever told you that daybreak is my favorite time of day? When we were kids, and you'd come over to spend the night, I'd always be the first one to wake up. I'd sit at the window, waiting to catch a glimpse of the sun. That was the only time you could actually see the sun from our apartment—right when it peeked over the horizon, before it got tangled up in all the buildings.

"After I joined S.H.I.E.L.D., I started to go running in the mornings, just before dawn. It's so quiet at that time of day, before even the birds are awake. The world is just so _loud_ these days, I loved getting a chance to relax before the bustle started up again. That's actually how I met Sam, did you know that? I liked to tease him by lapping him again and again.

"We should go running sometime. Just you and me, before the sun rises. I promise I'll jog real slow so you can keep up, haha. Then we'll stop to catch our breath and watch the sunrise. The birds will start to sing. The air will warm up. Your arm will be sparkling in the sunlight. We'll both be drenched in sweat.

"And it'll be beautiful."

* * *

 _Furnace._

"The first thing you asked me, when you saw how much I'd changed, was _Did it hurt?_ You weren't worrying about yourself anymore, even though you'd just been tortured. All you were worried about was whether I'd been hurt, whether I'd stay like this, whether I was okay or I'd been hurt like you.

"And it actually _did_ hurt quite a bit. I tried to play it down, because I knew it was nothing compared to what you'd been through—I'd volunteered, after all. But it did hurt. Having every muscle and bone in your body grow ten times stronger in the space of a couple minutes isn't exactly a picnic. It was terrifying, those minutes in the chamber, surrounded by nothing but darkness and pain. I started to wonder if I would ever get out, or if I would die in there, proof that I just wasn't good enough.

"You never had to ask me why I agreed to go through all of that. While we marched back to camp after I'd saved you and the others from the 107th, I told you the whole story, and you accepted it immediately. You could tell how much I'd changed, and you never once complained about how our roles...shifted. You were always the leader before, the one who came up with the ideas and decided what we were going to do. I wondered at first if you would resent how I'd suddenly taken charge and started to lead _you_ for a change.

"But when I asked you to follow Captain America, you just said the one you wanted to follow was Steve Rogers. I don't think I've ever thanked you for that. You're one of the very few people who can look past the shield of Captain America and see who I really am. And you're the only one left who knew me before, and could see it even then.

"I never thought of myself as a leader, and I never really tried to become one. I just wanted to do what was right. And if no one else was going to do it, then it fell to me to be the first.

"Is that what you saw in me, even back when I was skinny and pathetic? I was the only one stupid enough to go back and rescue you; everyone else had already given you up for dead. I guess that's why you agreed to follow me to the gates of hell. You'd already seen it, and I brought you out alive.

"That Nazi base must have seemed like hell to you. You'd been tortured and imprisoned, and while everything was self-destructing in there, it was hot as a furnace. But even so...you wouldn't leave without me. You would stay in hell for _me._

"I hope that's not what you're doing now—staying in hell for me. Just keep following my voice, Bucky. I'll lead you out again."

* * *

 _Nine._

"I remember the one time you had to get stitches. It was usually me who was getting hurt and going to the doctor to get patched up, but this time you actually got hurt worse than me.

"It was around Christmas time, and I was walking to the church for the Christmas pageant. I was so proud of myself, remember? I'd always get sick that time of year, so I could never be part of it. But this year I was actually doing really well, so they let me be part of the angel choir. I realized years later they did that so it wouldn't be too much of a problem if I got sick and couldn't be there, but at the time I felt really important.

"I was walking there by myself because Mother had to work the night shift. And of course I got into a fight—I just seem to attract them like flies, don't I? They were teasing me about my angel costume, and they seemed to enjoy hearing me protest that I was 'bringing glad tidings of great joy.' But they kept hitting me, and I kept fighting back, as usual.

"Then you were there, out of nowhere. I was on the ground at the time, and probably not thinking straight because of the beating, but you seemed so tall and impressive. You were silhouetted against a streetlight, so you almost seemed to glow. And you said to the bullies, 'Why don't you pick on someone your own size?'

"You're going to laugh, but for a second I thought you were my guardian angel.

"You fought them while I lay dazed in the snow, and you probably would have won, too. But then you slipped on a patch of ice and cracked your head pretty hard against the ground. The bullies got scared when they saw the blood, and they all ran away. You kept saying you were fine as I took you to the doctor, but you ended up getting nine stitches. Do you still have the scar?

"When you look at your scars, remember all the times you saved me. When you look at your face in the mirror, remember all the times you made me laugh. Because I do."

* * *

 _Benign._

"When you get out, I'm going to get you a puppy. You'll hold it, feed it, name it whatever you want. And you'll stroke its soft fur. It'll snuggle down under your gentle touch, and it'll crawl up onto your pillow to keep you warm while you sleep. It'll follow you around everywhere. You'll be inseparable.

"Everyone will think it's funny, or strange, to see you spending so much time taking care of a small, helpless animal like that. It'll seem so incongruous with the dangerous fighting machine they see when they look at you. Just like when they thought it was a bad idea for me to go looking for you after you'd almost killed me.

"But that's because they never could see the benign nature behind all that. None of them knew you before any of this happened, so none of them got to see what you're _really_ like.

"But I know you. I've seen your kind smile. I've felt your gentle touch. And even when you couldn't remember me, even when you didn't know who you were, I could still see that in you. It was so dim, so battered and worn...but I knew it was still there. It's never left you, Bucky. You haven't stopped being yourself.

* * *

 _Homecoming._

"I can't wait till you come home, Bucky.

"I used to think home was a place. Brooklyn was my home, America was my home. But now I go back to the places I used to know so well...and it's empty. I don't feel any sense of welcome, or belonging. It's not my home anymore. At first I thought that just meant I didn't _have_ a home anymore...but then I realized the truth I should have known all along.

"It's the people that make a home. It's not the place that's special—not really. A place is only special because of the people who are there. And as long as you have those people...it doesn't matter where you are. You're home.

"There are a few people who are like that for me—most of them are here. But you most of all, Bucky. You've been with me my whole life. You were there when I lost my parents. You were there when I got sick, and when I was hurt, and when I was happy, and when I just needed someone to talk to. So when I woke up in New York again, seventy years later, it wasn't just the strangeness that made me feel lost. It was not having you.

"I'd like to think it's the same way for you, that when you're around me, you feel like you're home. Maybe that's part of what you recognized when you saw me, even before you remembered who I was.

"And that feeling was so unexpected and so immediate that it took you completely by surprise. Because why would you feel at home with someone who was supposed to be your enemy?

"I miss you so much, Bucky. I can't wait for your homecoming."

* * *

 _One._

"Don't tell anyone I said this, okay? But I get really lonely sometimes.

"You'd think it would be pretty hard to get lonely, when I'm always around one or another of the Avengers, and besides, everyone knows who I am. Anyone I meet on the street would probably love to get to know me.

"But it's amazing how alone you can be in a crowd. Even when it's a crowd of friends. It's just...I'm the only one like me, you know? Of course the rest of the Avengers have their own strengths that set them apart from everyone else, but...they don't know what it's like. They don't know how it feels to be an old man in a young body, to feel like the world is rushing away from you while you're standing still.

"I think you're the only person who could really understand me. Because you're in the same situation, aren't you? There's no one else like you. No one else who's been through what you have. Is that why we fit each other so well? Not just because we're the only ones who are this age, pushed out of our own time. But because we both know what it's like to really be alone.

"It's only when I'm with you that I don't feel lonely."

* * *

 _Freight car._

"I went over and over it in my head afterwards, trying to think of all the mistakes I made, all the things I should have done better. Maybe if I'd been a little faster, or more aware, you wouldn't have fallen from that freight car.

"I knew it was my fault. I'd asked you to join me, to follow me to the jaws of death. And I wanted you to be the one to come down into the car to get Zola with me. If I hadn't...you would have survived. You never would have fallen...Hydra would never have captured you again...and you wouldn't be hurting now. That...all of that...is my fault.

"But then...it's also the reason that you're still here today. If none of that had happened, you might have died in a later battle. Or you might have survived and died of old age like everyone else I used to know. Because of everything that happened, we can be together again.

"You know...Peggy tried to comfort me after you fell, when I thought you were dead. She said it _wasn't_ my fault, that you'd made your choice to follow me. That you...thought I was worth it.

"And now I finally get it. I never saw it that way before; I always just saw it as _my_ mistake, _my_ demands that got you hurt. But you chose to follow me anyway, no matter what it meant you had to give up.

"You asked me whether it was worth it, to give up my shield, my place among the Avengers, the friendships I'd established. But you don't need to blame yourself, Bucky. You're worth all that and more."

* * *

Sam was the first one who thought of it, but everyone else was on board as soon as he mentioned it to them. Wanda talked T'Challa into bringing in the necessary medical staff. Clint offered to act as a lookout and casually head Steve off if they weren't ready yet. Scott mostly just kept getting underfoot (literally) as he tried to help.

But they all pitched in to get all the details just right. Because whatever they might think of Bucky Barnes, they were united in their love for Steve Rogers. He had given up everything for them, and they would do anything they could to repay him.

* * *

Steve could tell, as soon as he set foot inside the building, that something was different. He couldn't put his finger on what, exactly, had changed—was it too quiet?—but he didn't notice anything that seemed to indicate danger of some kind. So he just kept his eyes peeled and tried not to be too paranoid.

But when he got to Bucky's room, he saw the last thing he'd expected. Doctors bustled around, machines beeped. Clint, Wanda, and Scott stood chatting cheerfully nearby, all of them surrounding a hospital bed.

A hospital bed where Bucky lay with an oxygen mask and an IV attached to him.

"What's going on here?" Steve demanded, marching into the room.

"Is this the part where we all jump out and yell 'surprise'?" Scott asked.

They were all grinning knowingly at each other. They didn't understand. "But...you can't just...it's too risky..."

"Easy, Steve," Sam said, turning around from his position at the head of the bed. "We're just bringing him out for the one day—then he goes back to sleep until we find a cure for him."

"But...why?" He looked around at everyone and saw that they were all smiling at him.

Sam's eyes softened. "Because you deserve it."

Speechless, Steve looked down at Bucky—who, he saw, was beginning to wake up. He couldn't stop the grin from spreading across his face as he leaned over and helped Sam take off the oxygen mask. "Morning, sleepyhead."

Bucky blinked groggily up at him, ran his tongue over his lips to wet them, then mumbled, "'Sit my birthday...'r yours?"

Steve chuckled and grasped Bucky's cold hand. "No occasion. We just get a break for a change."

Bucky couldn't seem to stop shivering after they took out the IV and helped him out of the bed. The doctors assured them this was normal; his body was still trying to warm itself up after months of being frozen solid. So they brought him a warmed blanket, which Steve wrapped him up in tightly before transferring him to the couch. Everyone else casually drifted out of the room one by one, leaving the friends alone to catch up.

Neither of them said much during this flurry of activity. Bucky was still pretty groggy, and Steve was fighting just to breathe past the lump in his throat. He wasn't prepared for this...this gift. He had resigned himself to the silence and the waiting, but now...he didn't know what to do with himself.

For a minute or two after the last doctor had left, they sat silently on the couch. Eventually, Bucky muttered, "I'm still cold."

Steve got up and grabbed another blanket, which he wrapped around both of them. While Bucky burrowed under it until only his eyes showed over the edge, Steve found his icy-cold hand between the folds of cloth and started rubbing it between his to get the circulation going.

It was like those cold winter nights when Bucky would show up on his doorstep, pretending he was too drunk to find his way home or making up some story about avoiding his landlady. It was obvious he was just there to keep Steve company after his mother died, but Steve would play along. Then they would sit on the couch or side-by-side on his bed, huddled under blankets because Steve couldn't afford to keep the place heated. And Steve would start shivering uncontrollably even under the blankets because he was so skinny, and he couldn't stop until Bucky shared his and wrapped his arms around him. Steve remembered how the warmth would seep into him, almost from the inside out, and he would fall asleep pillowed on Bucky's shoulder. He wondered if Bucky was thinking of those days too. And if he was anywhere near the amount of comfort Bucky had been back then.

Bucky's fingers, warm at last, curled around his and stopped their movement. He rested his head against Steve's shoulder and let out a long, slow sigh—like he was finally able to put down a weight he'd been carrying for too long.

"I can't remember all the details of your stories," Bucky said softly, "but the dreams are starting to change. Thank you for your visits."

He couldn't breathe. He let go of Bucky's hand just long enough to pull him into a crushing hug. They both shook with the force of his tears.


End file.
